


Conservation

by TheWhiteLily



Category: Smallville
Genre: Established Relationship, Future Fic, Humor, M/M, Well I tried
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-01
Updated: 2016-04-01
Packaged: 2018-05-30 07:32:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6414619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWhiteLily/pseuds/TheWhiteLily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clark's clever tongue gets him into trouble with Lex.  No, not <i>that</i> kind of trouble.  Unfortunately.  The less fun kind, where they're <i>not</i> locked together in an impenetrable bunker for the night.  If only it <i>were</i> that kind of trouble.  Again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Conservation

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks as always for the wonderful betaing of Megabat! This story is not a part of any of my other Smallville universes.

* * *

Clark Kent was a dead man.  Dead alien.  A dead, seemingly immortal alien, despite not having found anything on earth that would put him down for more than a few days at a time.

That didn’t matter, at this point.  Given sufficient provocation, Clark knew that Lex’s creative genius was more than capable of ensuring even Superman could be the unfortunate victim of a little... accident.  A permanent one.

He was _dead_.

His pre-emptive obituary had been printed on the front page of the _Daily Planet_ , right there in black and white, over a Lane and Kent byline.  With pictures.  It was the pictures that _really_ put the last nail in the coffin marked _RIP Clark Kent_.

“Oh, _fiddlesticks_ ,” Clark managed fervently, mild-mannered camouflage at the _Planet_ having left him well out of practice with hard swearing.  “Mother’s _buckets_ , Lois!”  

Then he was forced to stuff a fist in his mouth to stifle a half-hysterical laugh, wondering if the best course of action wouldn’t just be to find some Kryptonite and end his own life quickly and humanely.

It was only a matter of time, after all, before the last member of his proud and noble race succumbed to the gruesome fate of blue balls.

***

Lex had clearly been already gone from the penthouse when Clark got up that morning: showered and dressed and engaged in crisis management in his office before Clark summoned up the super-strength to pry open his eyelids and stumble out to the kitchen in search of eggs and… actually, no, not bacon today.  Possibly never again.  Clark was seriously considering vegetarianism.

The smell of sizzling pork dripping still clung to his skin from the previous night’s battle with Metropolis’s latest self-styled villain: a maniacal deli owner describing himself as ‘The Porcine Prince’, who’d holed up on his roof to take decidedly non-kosher potshots at the synagogue opposite.  For some unguessable reason, the man had chosen to experiment with making Kryptonite-laced sausages, and quickly discovered the inevitable drawbacks of consuming his own merchandise.

Chief among them being the way that it had made his entire body swell up like an overstuffed casing.  Impervious to logic, with the insanity common to those who’d made a wish upon a falling star only to discover that Kryptonite—sort of—made dreams come true, The Porcine Prince had claimed that the inevitable result would be worth it.

“The flavor,” he’d yelled for all to hear, lobbing glowing pork pies from a modified grenade launcher and fending off Superman with a mutated, gangrenous salami, “is to _die_ for!”  

From the nauseating smell the Kryptonite-preserved meat had given off, Clark found that hard to believe.  And _Clark_ had previously eaten _bombs_ , when it had become clear that the disposal squad wasn't going to make it in time to contain the blast any other way than the steel walls of his stomach.  Still, Clark hadn’t been able to get past the Prince's debilitating Kryptonite aura to disable him and attempt decontamination to prevent the final, fatal result, which had splattered everything in the area with green-flecked mince.

At least when it was over, and Clark was forced to call in the Justice League for the toxic waste clean-up, it was too late for the Prince to embarrass Superman with any more juvenile puns.

Batman got all the really _cool_ villains—proper, insane megalomaniacs, who didn’t just fizzle out like whatever weird Kryptonite freak had cropped up that week.  The only thing Clark had to hold over Bruce on pub nights was that at least Superman’s villains didn’t try _too_ hard to be clever.

To be honest, they rarely tried to be clever at all, anymore.  Not like Lex had.  But Bruce wouldn’t go there; the League hadn’t completely forgiven Clark for the Treaty, even if they’d finally given up hope of making him see reason.  Really, Clark thought they had no room to complain; the whole thing had been their own fault in the first place.

Still, sometimes even Clark missed Lex being a villain.  At least, before, they’d got to see each other at work, but finding quality time together was always a problem now.  Almost as soon as they’d relinquished their role as nemeses for one rather more mutually satisfying, it seemed their shared destiny had become one of tragically misaligned schedules.  

Reporters went to bed with the paper.  CEOs woke up with it.  And superheroes rarely got to bed at all.

Lex might awake bright-eyed and ready to conquer on the world in a reformed and entirely non-villainous manner these days, but when Clark slept at all, he slept _in_.  Sometimes they could share the same bed all week without meeting face to face even once.

Clark could have asked Lex to send in a team to take care of the clean-up so he could go home, but they’d all learned their lesson early on about involving civilian crews with Kryptonite fallout.  The next thing they knew, Clark would be battling a line of meteor-mutated mop-spinning ex-employees bent on revenge, and Lex had really had enough concussions to be going on with.

Even once he'd called in the favour for the League for the clean up, Clark hadn’t felt right leaving them alone to take care of scooping and scrubbing the contaminated waste away.  Batman’s grumbling about ‘women’s work’ was making Wonder Woman finger her lasso in a meaningfully homicidal manner, which meant Clark should probably stay around in case he needed to break something up.

Really, someone needed to lock those two in a room.  With a bed.  Overnight.

Clark wished someone would have the decency to do the same to him and Lex.  Again.  

Granted, Lex’s office in his villainous hideout hadn’t been equipped with a handy bed, just reinforced walls thick enough to withstand assault from Superman.  But the principle was the same, and given that they’d found Lex’s hardwood desk to be a delightfully multifunctional stand-in, Clark still felt it counted.

In the absence of the constant fighting that had ultimately landed them together in lockdown a year ago, there was little chance of it happening again.  And _no_ chance of the League making the same mistake while circumventing Lex’s security protocols, shutting out even their own pirated access until the next scheduled rotation of the codes.  More was the pity.

It was demoralising, watching the League clean up the streets of _Clark’s_ city without being able to help, but given Clark started going green the moment he came within twenty feet of the splattered synagogue that had got the worst of the pork products, it was the only real option.  

He ended up floating uselessly just out of range of the Kryptonite’s influence, like a child’s balloon that dispensed friendly cleaning tips.  He could probably have sneaked away to general sighs of relief once it became clear that Batman wasn’t going to be able to get away with calling in Alfred to take care of the dirty work, that Aquaman was certain he was using enough water, that The Flash was sure he wasn’t rushing the job too much, that Wonder Woman was definitely coming back for that spot, and that no one was going to come to blows unless Clark came out with _one more helpful comment_.  But at that point, even Lex wouldn’t have blamed Clark for hanging around to watch Batman’s gloweringly misguided efforts to operate a squeegee.  At least, he wouldn’t once he saw the pictures Clark had managed to sneak from behind the cover of his cape.

By the time Clark made it home, just before dawn, Lex had been fast asleep for hours.  And this morning, he was already gone.  

Clark hadn’t seen his partner awake in days.  He was tired, running late, greasy no matter many showers he took, and had no idea how he was going to write up a story on The Porcine Prince without making Superman a laughingstock.  Lex would have been able to work out how to spin it; he was devious like that.  But the only remnant of Lex’s morning in the penthouse seemed to be a tiny, empty coffee cup and a few drips of espresso soaking into the accusatory front page of Friday’s _Daily Planet_.

Clark passed it without more than a glance, in search of whatever non-pork products he could find in the fridge.  His super-speed double take made the brown flecked pages flutter ominously where the cup weighted them down… was that?  It was!  Lex had spilled his coffee!

Lex could get a little intense about the lethally strong, imported blend of coffee he drank.  Clark didn’t dare to use the massive, shiny espresso machine himself, in case he disrespected the beans, each one individually hand-picked, pan-roasted and personally hulled between the toned buttocks of a Sub-Saharan warlord.

Or something like that.  Clark’s eyes tended to glaze over before Lex made it past the part about the optimally harsh microclimates that provided minimum yield and maximum flavor.

Personally, Clark couldn’t tell much difference between the coffee that made Lex sound like he’d just discovered how to orgasm through his nose, and the top-ups from the all-night diner across the road from the _Planet_ , where they just kept adding more grounds into the top of the percolator all day.  By evening, their brew was strong enough to wrestle Superman to the ground, and dark enough to use as ink for the next edition.  Even Lois wouldn’t drink it after nine p.m., and coffee was practically a food group to her.

Once, Clark had made the mistake of admitting to Lex that he didn’t much care how coffee tasted, as long as it kept him awake.  Now, whenever he saw Clark near his espresso machine, Lex got a twitch in his eyebrow that clearly indicated he was inches away from pressing a speed-dial on his phone that released a horde of ninjas wielding Kryptonite nunchucks.  Clark felt sure Lex was in possession of a fully trained squad he’d been keeping in reserve for just such an emergency.

So, Lex spilling his coffee was a big deal.  Given the headline of the paper he’d spilled it on, it was a big deal that meant if Clark saw Lex again anytime in the near future, it was likely to be at Clark’s own funeral.

Lex spilling his coffee was practically a declaration of war.

“It wasn’t my _fault_ , Lex,” whined Clark, examining his reflection carefully for believability in the polished surface of the espresso machine.  Given the guilty squeak in his voice, he didn’t even believe himself.  “It wasn’t— _ahem_ —it wasn’t my fault, Lex,” he tried again, finding his confidence as his voice deepened and gained a familiar resonant timbre.

No, that wouldn’t work either.  If he started channeling Superman, Lex was liable to press the button summoning the Kryptonite ninjas as a reflex, without even giving Clark a twitching eyebrow for warning.

Clark tried a pathetic look on the espresso machine, and succeeded beyond his wildest dreams.  He _was_ pathetic.  Unfortunately, it wasn’t a look that was likely to get him laid any time soon.

What had he been _thinking_?

That’s right: he _hadn’t_ been thinking.  He and Lois had been chasing the story of the threat LexCorp’s mining interests caused to the dwindling habits of the native eagles in the greater Metropolis area all week.  Clark had been looking forward to Lex’s reaction to the story.  He’d convinced Lois to hold it back until Friday as a kind of anniversary present, in commemoration of the Treaty, because Lex always tended to get more than usually amorous over the arguments they conducted through the pages of _Planet_.  But while Clark was helping Lois put the finishing touches to the write-up, his attention had been drawn away by the urgent cries of alarm and disgust from the synagogue on eighty-ninth street.

Clark automatically told Lois he’d forgotten to feed his goldfish, and he had to go.

“Oh, gosh _darn_ it, Smallville,” she imitated cruelly.  “I guess that _is_ an emergency to you.  Well I guess we’re nearly done here, but unless you want to read my byline alone under 'LexCorp Are Planning To Construct A Goddamn Fucking _Mine_ On The Site Of An Endangered Eagle Nesting Ground, The Goddamn Fucking Bastards', which even I can tell lacks _bounce_ , give me the headline.”

Lois and Clark were a good team because their strengths were complementary.  Lois went after each story like a rabid, highly-caffeinated bloodhound, tenacious and relentless in finding and dragging ugly facts into the light, disemboweling the subjects of their investigation with outraged, brutally accurate strokes of her pen.  

Clark mostly trailed along behind, providing aid and backup for Mad Dog Lane, working his shy country charm on the witnesses she’d offended, protecting her from the ones where that wasn’t enough, providing unobtrusive super assistance when the investigation hit a wall, and occasionally ducking away to return in the suit when she got in _completely_ over her head.  And ironically enough, Clark was the one who wrote the human element into the story.  He was the one who conveyed the compassion and the humor, the call to action, and the persistence of hope that brought Lois’s impassioned diatribe to life.  Clark made the story sing for the Pulitzer review panel, and catch fire in the minds of the public.

And Clark did the headlines.  He’d always been a man of few words, so perhaps it wasn’t surprising that he’d turned out to be good at summing up a story: twisting multiple implications into a single pithy phrase that would catch the reader’s attention and pique their interest enough to buy a paper.

Lois, on the other hand, had always suffered from the kind of insane commitment to uncovering the truth that refused to be summarized.  It meant that she seldom had trouble writing up the story she’d ended up hanging from a window ledge in order to prove, but that she couldn’t write concisely if she’d had a gun to her head.

She’d actually proved that beyond doubt when one of the endless line of Kryptonite mutants that plagued Clark’s life had been discovered hoarding ink in the _Planet_ ’s printing room, and took the entire editorial staff hostage to demand a reduction in unnecessary verbiage.

Clark spent the five hour standoff pacifying the man.  It had cemented his reputation as an utter coward, not least because of the way he’d kept trying to sneak away to find a chance to become Superman.  But even while cringing away from the mutant’s Kryptonite aura in what his colleagues had taken to be bowel-wrenching terror of the gun, Clark worked with everyone on their articles to successfully reduce them to the specified twenty words or less.  People still sometimes came to him for advice in unknotting a tricky concept for the topline of their stories.

In the standoff, Lois had scorned his assistance and refused to cut down her article on police brutality by more than a few misplaced commas that wouldn’t have made it past Perry anyway.  Clark was moments away from turning into Superman right there, in full view of a room full of reporters, so she didn’t get her brains splattered… when it had turned out to be unnecessary, because Lois had planted one high heel solidly in the mutant's balls and brought the crisis to an end.

So when Lois asked him for the headline, Clark hadn’t thought at all.  Mentally, he’d already been at the scene, listening in on the confused shouts and screams as people ran for cover from the rain of shredded ham.  The words had just… come out.  The best lines always did come that way, subconsciously coalescing from the depths of his mind while he worked with Lois on the rest of story.  

Often, Clark was unaware of the headline he’d found until she asked for it.

On this occasion, he was unaware of the headline he’d found until he saw the morning paper, worked through the shock that Lois or Perry had managed to come up with a better line, and then replayed the moment in his mind, listening to his own words.

“Bald vs Eagle,” he heard himself say, one foot already in the stairwell, fingers pulling his tie loose with one hand while the other reached for his glasses.

The same headline was displayed in bold type on the front page of the _Daily Planet_ over a Lane and Kent byline, splattered in espresso that looked like it might be smouldering as it started to eat its way through the paper.

_BALD vs EAGLE_

Clark was in so much trouble.

Above the words were two photos to match; one of Lex, glaring haughtily at the camera, one of a bald eagle doing the same.  The resemblance was uncanny—not in any visual sense—but in the faint stirring of the hairs at the back of the neck, the vestigial frisson of terror that raced up the spine at the matched gazes of two apex predators.

Clark was in _so_ much trouble.

It wasn’t that Lex was _sensitive_ about his baldness, per se.  And technically, the story wasn’t in violation of the Treaty.  Clark was allowed—indeed encouraged—to go after LexCorp’s shady dealings in the pages of the _Planet_ , rather than charging into Lex’s office with a head full of steam and righteous indignation, fueled by unverifiable suspicions based on unprintable facts.

But Lex didn’t forget the reporters who got personal in their attacks.  Not until there was nothing left of them worth remembering.

None of the tabloid reporters who’d got personal in the aftermath of their coming out as a couple had been able to capitalize on the name they’d made for themselves in the brief sensationalist feeding frenzy.  Due to an unfortunate series of mishaps, none of their careers had lasted very long at all.  

Technically that _had_ possibly been in violation of the newly minted Treaty, but Clark hadn’t looked very hard for the publishable proof that would have enabled him to rein Lex in.  After having seen the look on Lex’s face when he saw that the right-aligned _Metropolis Star_ had led with “Bald Billionaire Beds Boy” and the associated political cartoon, Clark hadn’t been sure he’d dared to try—or that he wanted to.

And that thought was truly frightening.  Clark frantically paged through the _Planet_ to the editorial page, and cringed at the sight.  

Perry had obviously woken up Ron, when Lois submitted their article, to draw a new political cartoon in honour of the front page.  The caricature was obviously Lex, a beak in place of his nose, feathered arms spread over a smoking wasteland of broken trees, dead wildlife and mining equipment.  

Clark was in _so_ much _trouble_.

Obviously the _Planet_ ’s coverage of the mining story wasn’t as bad as the _Star_ ’s offensive implications on their relationship. But the _Planet_ would never have sunk to the level of that rag; Metropolis’s greatest newspaper was legendarily respectable and impartial.  Words printed in the _Planet_ carried as much weight as the globe from the roof—and Clark was unfortunately familiar with the weight of _that_.  It seemed as though every creditable super-villain who hit Metropolis was ultimately aiming to knock that thing off its perch.  Next time it plunged dramatically to the ground, Superman was going to suggest installing it as a water feature in the forecourt rather than doing his usual iconic flight to place the planet back into place while Jimmy and his camera went ballistic.  He really _did_ need to stop drawing attention to Superman’s connection to the newspaper.  Besides, as loosely as the globe seemed to be attached, having it up there was a hazard to passers-by.

In any case, words printed on the front page of the _Daily Planet_ were quite a different thing to the _Metropolis Star_.  The _Star_ printed a page three retraction several times a week; the last time the _Planet_ had needed to print a retraction, Perry had needed to be sedated for his own good.  

And none of the gutter press who’d gone after Lex previously had been _Clark_.   _They_ hadn’t made Lex spill his coffee.  He'd just gone thin-lipped and intensely, preternaturally calm as he carefully drained the cup to its last, precious drop.  However content Lex was to have Clark go after his business interests in the pages of the _Planet_ , public personal disrespect from his partner crossed a line. Worse, now that Clark had opened the door, it would be open season from the rest.

Lex would be lucky if he _ever_ shook the bald eagle association.  

Whatever else tomorrow’s cartoon in the unimaginative, homophobic _Star_ showed, Clark knew it would include the _Planet_ ’s feathery Lex, as well as a gawky pubescent boy with an absent chin, a too-big suit and thick glasses.  There would be _implications_.

It was probably time the _Star_ got a new cartoonist anyway.

As for Clark, at this point the Kryptonite ninjas were the least of his worries.  He was in _so much trouble_.

***

“Kent!” called Perry as soon as Clark cleared the elevator.  “Great work from you and Lane on the Bald Eagle piece; we’re into the third edition thanks to that headline of yours!  I want a follow-up today with the environmental interest groups, and make sure you and Lane get to Luthor’s press conference on time.  He'll be in full damage control mode, and you need to stay ahead of it!”

“Yes, Chief,” agreed Clark miserably, and hunched over towards his desk.

“You’re late, Smallville,” snapped Lois as he passed, then paused, sniffing the air, and followed him.  “Something smells good.  Are you trying to sneak a bacon sandwich past me?  I hereby claim your lunch in recompense for you leaving me in the lurch last night.”

“Sorry, Lois,” said Clark, eyeing his wastepaper basket.  The residual greasy feeling of Kryptonite sausage mince on his skin was making his usually cast-iron stomach churn.  He liked bacon sandwiches.  And sausages.  And all variety of fatty, juicy, products of that most delicious of animals, the pig.  Ordinarily.  “I wasn't feeling hungry this morning.”

Lois gave a disbelieving snort and began conducting a search of Clark’s messenger bag, following the scent with far less success than she usually did.

“Unfortunately,” Clark explained reluctantly, “I happened to be passing and caught the last bit of Superman’s battle with Metropolis’s latest super-villain.  Emphasis on the late, not so much on the super.  Apparently there isn’t enough soap in the world to get rid of the smell.  I’ll write it up after the press conference.”

The number of Superman incidents Clark had ‘just happened to be passing’ made it a miracle that Lois hadn’t put the whole thing together yet.

“That Pork Prince guy?”  Lois wrinkled her nose dubiously, giving up on finding her quarry in Clark’s bag.  “Scraping the bottom of the barrel a bit there, aren’t they?  I don’t know what makes these freaks think they’ve got a chance against _Superman_.”  She paused to sigh dreamily, stars in her eyes, before snapping back to reality.  “I picked it up on the scanner before I went to bed, but I assumed they’d be finished by the time I got there, so I didn’t bother.  Were they going long?”

Clark scowled, remembering hours of ducking and avoiding blows from the overstuffed green salami the Prince had been waving like a quarterstaff, trying to get close enough to disable the artillery without passing out.

It was embarrassingly banal, but Superman’s villains didn’t need to have a cogent plan if they had Kryptonite.  And if there were any less ridiculous villains trying to step into the power vacuum Lex had left in the Metropolis underworld, then they were keeping their heads well down and out of Superman’s view.

“He had Kryptonite,” said Clark grumpily.  “Superman couldn’t get near enough to take him out.”

“Why didn’t he just throw something at him?” she asked, puzzled.

Clark frowned at her.  “Throw what, Lois?”

“I mean…”  She mimed tossing a dart.  “Super speed?  Super strength?  Super accuracy?  Any pebble on the ground can be as lethal as a bullet, to _Superman_.”

She paused again for the obligatory sigh and few moments gazing into space, covering Clark’s moment of consternation.  It certainly would have made the confrontation shorter.  By the time she turned back, he had his answer.

“Superman doesn’t kill people, Lois,” he said sternly.  “Not even bad guys.”

“He wouldn’t have to throw that hard, Clark, just because he _could_.”  She glared, as insulted as though he’d claimed she thought Superman should spend his off-time drowning puppies.  “Just enough to get the weapon out of their hands, or knock them out.”

She slapped her palm on her own forehead in demonstration of both the technique and her conviction that Clark deserved to be its first recipient.

Clark was familiar with the motion.  An unfortunately high proportion of Lex’s concussions had been given to him by Clark in the days they’d still had secrets, when the ‘adrenaline’ excuse had started wearing thin.  More thin.

“I guess he didn’t think of that, Lois,” sighed Clark.  It looked like his battles with Kryptonite mutants were about to get a lot easier.  “Next time you see him, why don’t you suggest it?”

“Me?  Suggest something to _Superman_?”  She sighed rapturously, the stars back her eyes again, and wandered off in a happy daydream, oblivious as she tripped over Clark’s waste bin and sent the contents rolling away.

Now Clark had even less idea how he was going to write up the Porcine Prince debacle without making Superman look like an idiot.  Maybe it was a lost cause.  Hopefully the piece would end up buried in one of the back pages of the city news, where no one would read it.  Superman battling yet another strange Kryptonite freak wasn't exactly big news.

The notification of the LexCorp press conference Perry had mentioned, when he found it in his in tray, snapped Clark back to reality.  It was set for 10am, the notice phrased with all the pleasantries of an invitation to tea, personally addressed to Lane and Kent of the _Daily Planet_.  That was a nice frosty touch from Mercy that made Clark curl up and die a little inside at what Lex must have looked like this morning to inspire _her_ to passive aggression.

Not to mention that an unscheduled conference so early in the day risked some reporters missing the thing, if they’d taken it to the wire on their deadlines the previous night.  Like Lois and Clark usually did.  It meant that Lex was _very_ keen to make sure the details of his rebuttal made it out before the weekend.  Keen enough to risk missing some of the papers entirely.  Keen enough to risk missing the _Planet_.

Clark was doomed.

***

Lex gave a faint frown from the podium, looking down his nose at the hastily assembled reporters, and a flurry of flashes went off at the repetition of his uncanny resemblance to that darned eagle.  All the other papers would be carrying echoes of the _Planet_ ’s front page the following day.

“I’m a little put out,” he started, with an exasperated smile that could have even been sincere, “that Lane and Kent managed to break the story before I could.”  

He didn’t look in Clark’s direction despite the obvious opportunity.  The other reporters in the room didn't mimic his restraint, scenting blood in the water.

“However, and I say this with the greatest of respect for one of our city’s best reporting teams, I’m afraid they did get a few minor details incorrect.  The nesting and hunting grounds of the bald eagles _do_ form part of the package of land LexCorp is planning to mine.  It won’t be the only such parcel of vulnerable land we acquire over the next few months.  But I’m happy to say that the eagles are in no danger.  LexCorp is in the consumer acceptance stage of a revolutionary new unmanned mining machine which should allow the drilling to be done efficiently and safely via deep, stable tunnels with entrances well outside the animal habitats.  In essence, we can buy up pristine land and keep it that way, saving animal habitats from potential development and commercialising otherwise unworkable land.  LexCorp is working closely with animal conservation and regulatory bodies to ensure our process satisfies everyone’s…”

Clark sank down in his chair as Lex outlined the details of LexCorp’s new environmental mining initiative, torn between feeling annoyed and impressed.

There was too much work here for it to have been scrambled in response to their article; Lex had clearly been planning for this all along.  Planning an _animal preserve_ on top of his mine site, as though that was something real people did.  Somehow, Lex had done it.  In only a year, he had actually transformed LexCorp from a front for dubious research and exploitative practices, into a company that could make money out of protecting the environment.

Because, a year ago today, once they’d exhausted all avenues of escape from the locked room and at long last been forced to _talk_ , Clark had asked Lex to change.  He’d made a half-despairing joke, about what he’d be willing to offer in return.  Lex hadn’t laughed.  After a moment, seeing the look Lex was giving him, Clark hadn’t been laughing either.

And so, a year ago today, in between the moans and the tearing of clothes and the long-suppressed declarations, they’d hammered out the details of the Treaty, which covered:

  1. the immediate cessation of LexCorp’s villainous activities;
  2. the immediate cessation of Superman (AKA Clark Kent)’s interference in LexCorp’s legitimate activities;
  3. the assertion of Lex Luthor’s right to work as CEO, taking an ethical LexCorp to the top of the Fortune 500;
  4. the assertion of Clark Kent (AKA Superman)’s right to work as an investigative reporter, keeping LexCorp on the straight and narrow while it got there; and
  5. shared residency and the mutual exclusivity of intimate relations.



Lex had insisted on drawing up and signing the document before the second round.

Much later, Clark had claimed that Lex’s insistence on that matter _had_ to invalidate the contract as being signed under duress.  Surely even Superman couldn’t be expected to retain sound mind when presented with a peace treaty and a pen by a naked and very much aroused Lex Luthor.  Lex hadn’t even, Clark pointed out with some outrage, used a _chair_ while he’d been drawing up the contract, just bent over at the waist to lean on the desk.  As he’d been writing, he’d been unconsciously _wiggling!_  Mesmerized by the subtle motion of the plush, round, delectable… well, _mesmerized_ , Clark had barely been capable of walking, let alone conscious thought.

Lex had pointed out, smiling like a contented shark in the afterglow, that given Clark wouldn’t be able to dispute the document he’d just signed in a court of law without hopelessly compromising Superman’s secret identity, the point was somewhat irrelevant.  Besides, since Clark had been the one who’d ripped Lex’s pants right down the middle earlier, in his efforts to get up close and personal with their contents, he only had himself to blame for the view.

Clark had called Lex a devious, conniving minx; Lex hadn’t denied it.  Clark had asked if there were any addenda that might be needed to complete the document, and they’d proceeded to round three without further delay.  Lex’s meteor-enhanced recovery time had turned out to be useful for more than surviving convenient concussions.  As had his investment in sturdy office furniture.

Maybe the headline wasn’t as big a deal as Clark was worried about.  Maybe Lex would accept an apology.  A naked one, with whipped cream and strawberries on top.  It was their anniversary, after all.  Maybe…

“I’ll now take questions,” Lex’s voice broke through Clark’s reverie, making him suddenly aware of his too-tight pants.  

“Lois Lane, _Daily Planet_ ,” cried Lois, surging to her feet as she identified herself, always the first with a question.  It had got so as the other reporters didn’t even try to beat her to it anymore, saving their energies for the race to be recognized second.

Lex paused before acknowledging, suddenly very, _very_ still.

Clark’s optimism for the prospects of an apology wilted.  It looked like the only option was going to be hiding out in the Fortress until it all blew over.  Jor-El’s disappointed speeches about world domination and Kryptonian superiority couldn’t possibly be worse than Lex being silently cutting.

“Purely out of curiosity, Ms. Lane,” said Lex at last, his brow wrinkled in faint puzzlement, “may I ask whether the idea for that—vivid—headline was yours or your partner’s?”

Faint hope dawned and Clark reanimated suddenly in an attempt to save his life, hissing, “ _Takethecredittakethecredit!_ ”  Then he realized that this was possibly the only way to ensure that Lois would do no such thing.

“Not a chance, Smallville,” she confirmed, full volume.  “It was my partner’s, of course, Mr. Luthor.  Kent always does the clever headlines.”

Clark slumped back into his seat, limp with despair and slouching lower as a malicious snigger ran through the assembled reporters.  There was nowhere to hide; Lois had to wear heels to be a foot shorter than Clark, and the chair on his other side was empty.  The man Clark had originally squeezed in next to had made a resentful comment about having missed his own breakfast  _working_ , and moved away.

The press covering the city beat hadn’t been any more pleased when Lex and Clark’s relationship had gone public than the League.  It didn’t matter to them that Clark now had to work twice as hard as anyone else to get a quote on anything important out of Metropolis’s leading businessman.  Lex couldn’t afford to have anything important he had to say disregarded due to a perceived bias from the reporter, and he couldn’t afford to dilute any positive press coverage he got on his company’s brave new direction with the assumption that his life partner might be writing a friendly puff piece.  

“I suspected as much.”  Lex’s voice was pleasant, calm and exquisitely controlled.  “I just thought I should… make _certain_.”

“Someone’s in troooouble!” sang a quiet, anonymous voice, prompting another round of sniggering.

Clark looked at Lex, still expressionlessly avoiding looking at Clark as he waited for the laughter to die down, and gave a quiet moan of terror.  He closed his eyes and hoped the ability to become invisible might spontaneously manifest as a new superpower.  At this point probably even the Fortress wouldn’t be able to hold Lex off.  Clark was going to _die_.

“Now,” said Lex, as though the interlude hadn’t happened, “you had a question, Ms. Lane?”

“Have you and your father spoken about whether Luthorcorp and its subsidiaries and stakeholders will also be joining the voluntary…”

***

“No,” said Clark.  “Absolutely no way.”

Perry had waited a whole ten seconds after Lois and Clark submitted their copy to summon them into his office for editorial review.  He hadn’t needed to read the article.  Apparently, he hadn’t wanted to.

“Kent,” he said sharply, “this is your team’s screw-up we’re fixing.  Breaking yesterday’s story could have netted the pair of you another Pulitzer if you’d had all the facts, but you _didn’t_.  If the _Planet_ doesn’t take control of this story and turn it back, we’ll lose all credibility.  You know as well as I do what that headline needs to be, and it isn’t ‘Luthor’s Preserve Plan’.  Would you buy a paper that sounds like it’s leading with a goddamn _bake_ show?”

“I won’t call him that,” said Clark, but his voice was small, a very long way from the surety it carried as Superman.  He knew Perry was right: the headline he’d put on the story they’d submitted _sucked_.  “It’s shorter this way.  You can use bigger print.”

“What won’t you call him?” demanded Lois, obviously feeling left out of the conversation as she looked from one to the other like she was at a tennis match.  “What should the headline be?”

Perry ignored her, walking around his desk to put a hand on Clark’s shoulder.  “Son, you assured me you could handle the conflict of interest, so I stuck my neck out for you with the suits.  I’ve been happy to be proved right so far, but if you think your relationship with Luthor means you can’t handle working city desk, then I’ll understand.  Your job’s not on the line.  Maybe you’d be more comfortable working the lifestyle section.”

Lois gasped, hands over her mouth at the thought of Clark so reduced, or maybe just at the thought of losing the partner who’d simultaneously softened and sharpened her hard-bitten style until it could pierce the heart.  Clark inspected a loose thread in his sleeve, unwilling to meet her gaze, or Perry’s.  The warmth of Perry’s hand seeped through the shoulder padding of his cheap suit, through the thin spandex of his super-suit, and into his invulnerable skin.

“Sport, if you’d prefer,” tried Perry, watching him closely.  “Travel.  You could go with Luthor on business trips; write up the local color for the _Planet_.  You’d be good at that.  Or we could put you in Entertainment.  I was already planning to set you up with a weekend column there, starting with that hilarious bit you wrote up on Superman’s latest battle—I don’t know _why_ the big guy didn’t just knock him over with that freezing breath of his, if he couldn’t get a grip on him.  Or use his laser gizmo to heat the equipment until Pork Man couldn’t touch it.”

“Everyone’s a critic,” muttered Clark, crossing his arms over his chest.  He unfolded them quickly as he realized that gesture was Superman’s, an unavoidable reaction he’d had to wearing a spandex bodysuit that was only one step away from being naked in public.  He hadn’t _meant_ the story to be funny, but it seemed there was only one way to write up a superhero unable to cope with exploding pies, so in the end he’d just had to go with it.  He certainly didn’t want it to be the first in a weekly series of Superman’s Super Stuff-ups.

“Look,” said Perry sympathetically, “I don’t want to break up my best team any more than you do.  But if you’re going to soften a story because you’re worried it’ll upset your boyfriend, then I have to.  The _Planet_ isn’t about to become a PR mouthpiece for anyone.”

Clark looked at the floor, scowling, and thought of the spilled coffee.  Thought of the hurtful gutter press that Lex had taken the worst of when they’d come out as a couple.  Thought of how cold and intense Lex had gone at the personal attacks; the random misfortunes that had befallen the authors.  Thought of the freedom of movement afforded to Clark at city desk, the access to the time-critical information that meant Superman could save lives, the lack of oversight that meant he could duck out at any point to ‘follow a lead’.  Thought of the way he and Lex had set up the Treaty so they could each keep the things they needed most.  Thought of his vow to keep Lex honest through official, public channels.  Thought of the way the wild, undirected accusations and angry denials that had once torn their friendship apart had given way to the professional pursuit of hard, printable evidence and a solid change in LexCorp’s direction.

What would it mean to lose that outlet?  To lose city desk _would_ mean losing his job.  The most important one.  And maybe losing Lex, too.

“No,” said Clark, hanging his head.  Apparently it didn’t take much at all to defeat Superman these days.  All of a sudden the late night seemed to be catching up with him.  “Thanks for the offer, Perry, but the damage is done.  All the other papers will be calling him that; I might as well own up to it.  The headline is: ‘Bald Eagle’s Preserve Plan’.”

***

At 6pm, Perry having eventually deigned to read their article and let them get on with rewriting it to his requirements, they put the weekend edition to bed.  The early deadline was to give the printers extra time to produce the biggest paper the _Planet_ put out.  While it didn’t mean that no one _actually_ worked on the weekend, it meant that apart from a few quick visits to submit breaking news for the front few pages of Monday’s edition, only Perry and the printing staff would be working in the _office_.  And only Lois would be out stalking the streets like a Kryptonite-enhanced ice-cream server in search of the next big scoop.

Soon there would be no excuse; Clark was going to have to go home.  And face up to Lex.

Of course, there was never an emergency when he needed one.  With the number of times he’d ducked out on Lois with some ridiculous excuse, she’d probably think nothing of it if he welched on her—but Lex would never be fooled.  He kept track of the location of Metropolis’ superhero at all times, so unless Clark could find a fire—or a bomb threat, or… maybe there was another Kryptonite mutant already on the move?  Another one like that altered librarian, who’d had the power to keep everyone around her so absolutely quiet that even Superman hadn’t heard her until she’d blanketed more than half the city in silence?  

Perhaps he should run a short patrol; it was always best to get in before a mutant got too firmly entrenched.  That Librarian’s army of sentient catalogue cards had been too widespread to go down with her when Clark eventually cornered her.  He'd spent months rooting out the last of them as they terrorised the corner-folding, margin-writing, late-returning public and surreptitiously reorganised home bookshelves according to the Dewey Decimal system.

But no.  It was supposed to be the weekend, the only time their schedules synced up and they got to see each other for more than a few minutes in passing.  It was their _anniversary_.  The anniversary of the Treaty that had changed everything.  Mostly, for the better.

Clark could be a grown man about this.  Grown alien.  Grown, without loss of generality, being, who could take responsibility for his own actions.  He was _Superman_ , after all.  He was, for all intents and purposes, indestructible.

And his partner was Lex Luthor.  A supremely peeved Lex Luthor.

So there went that plan.

***

Clark heard the front door of the penthouse open and shut, and curled further in on himself, gibbering internally with silent dread.  Lex would run him to ground eventually, he knew, but there was no need to hasten the event.  

“Clark?” called Lex.  “Where are you?  Clark?  I know you’re here, I saw the keycard logs.  Are you…”  Lex flipped a switch and looked confused in the sudden light that flooded the cupboard.  He frowned down at Clark’s hunched form.  “Are you _hiding_ in here?”

“No?” asked Clark, cursing the audible question mark as he unfolded from a fetal crouch in the corner of the walk-in robe, trying to look natural.  He wasn’t hiding.  Of course he wasn’t.  “Just, um, looking for, for… for a stapler!”

Lex looked around curiously, as though the contents of the small room might have changed since he’d found his clothes and got dressed that morning.

“In the wardrobe.”  Lex’s tone _defined_ dubious.

“Thought I might have left it here?”

“In the dark.”

“Super-vision?” tried Clark.

“You could have done _that_ through the lounge room wall,” said Lex flatly.  “Clark, how is it possible that you have successfully maintained two identities for this long?  You are the _worst_ liar I have ever met.  You are _avoiding_ me.”

“Avoiding you?”  At some point, Clark’s brain was going to kick into gear, and he was going to say something intelligent.

“Clark.  I want you out in the lounge room in one minute,” ordered Lex coldly.  “Ready to behave like a real person.  We _both_ know what this is about, and it’s obvious we need to have it out.  If you actually  _do_ love me despite the evidence, then you’ll be willing to talk.”

He turned on his heel and stalked away.

Well.  It looked like there was nothing for it but to face the music.

Clark got to his feet and did some brief, super-speed calisthenics to warm up.  It felt like going in to face Lex as a villain.  It felt like the day he’d stormed the ultra-fortified hideout Lex obviously considered appropriate to his position as Superman’s nemesis, only to find that the failsafes the League had disabled left them both trapped.  

Except this time, Clark couldn’t take Lex to task on his latest evil pursuit.  This time, Lex hadn’t done anything wrong, because _Clark_ was the villain.  

“Superman,” he muttered to himself, doing fifty toe-touches, then swinging his arms as he jumped on the spot a few hundred times.  “You’re _Superman_.  Get it together and stop being such a nincompoop.  You’re the most powerful being on the planet.  You’re _not_ going to lose him over some stupid _headline_.”

Thus buoyed, Clark strode out into the lounge room confidently.

“Now, let’s be reasonable here, Lex,” he said, trying to take control of the conversation from the get go.  It was what Lex would have done, in his place.  “I’m a reporter; you’re the news.  We agreed I wouldn’t pull any punches when we signed the Treaty, you know I can’t show favoritism, or—”

“Bald versus Eagle, Clark?”  

Lex’s voice was deadly even, his expression as murderous as it ever had been on the far end of a villainous standoff, and Clark flinched away, losing the paltry momentum he’d managed to generate.  It was a fair point, after all, and eloquently put.  

“Really?” sneered Lex.  “And the photos?  The _cartoon_?”

“Now, those really weren’t my fault!” protested Clark, backing away from Lex’s menacing advance, holding his fingers spread in front of him in a useless gesture of peace.  “I didn’t know, I swear!  I was, I was busy, doing, doing _stuff_ , I mean, _super_ stuff, and I wasn’t even _thinking_ about what was coming out of my mouth for the headline, about what they’d do with it, I’m sorry!  I didn’t know it would snowball like this!”

“You didn’t know,” repeated Lex, caustically enough to corrode steel.  The Man of Steel, even.  “You weren’t thinking.  Too busy being _Superman_ , dashing off to fight the Pig King.  At least you’ve made back _your_ reputation as an unbiased reporter, because tomorrow the headlines on every paper, Clark, _every paper in the country_ , will refer to me as ‘The Bald Eagle’.”

Clark tried to fold in on himself in shame, but Lex wasn’t finished.  

“And after your little performance in the press conference today?  Those malicious bottom-feeders will make sure it sticks.  In twenty years, Clark, they’ll _still_ be calling me ‘The Bald Eagle’.  Do you understand what that means for my political aspirations?  Before you, there was only one thing in my entire life that I wanted, and that was to make history as the President of the United States.  And I gave that up, Clark.  I gave up any hope of being what I’d always dreamed, gave it up to all those homophobic bigots, decided to be happy with what I could build with LexCorp, let the _Star_ imply whatever they liked about my personal life, so that I could be with _you_ , Clark.”

Clark’s back hit the wall and he cringed back against it as he waited for the inevitable end.  Lex's slow, glowering advance was inexorable, and Clark had _nothing_  left to say in his own defense.  

There was going to be pain.  And scathing, pointed remarks.  And possibly ninjas.  There were going to be accusations that his association with Clark was making Lex a laughingstock; that if his partner clearly didn’t respect him in public, he couldn’t maintain the respect of his staff or his investors.

Hopefully there would be.  Because if not, it could be even worse.  There could be the moment when Lex turned away, biting the inside of his lip, not letting the words that couldn’t be taken back spill out, but _thinking_ them.  Thinking about the mocking things Oliver and Bruce and all the other rich, stupid teenage boys had said to him in school.  Thinking that Clark was the same.  Thinking that maybe this relationship wasn’t worth it, with the slow-motion fights through the pages of the _Planet_ , the whole sections of his business he’d had to shut down thanks to Clark’s digging, the suspicious slights of the Justice League, the time they spent apart, the clash of the different worlds they inhabited outside the penthouse.  That maybe, just maybe, Lex didn’t want to do this anymore.

“I’m sorry,” said Clark desperately.  “Lex, I didn’t mean to hurt you.  I’m sorry, I’m really, _really_ sorry.”

Eyes squeezed shut, he waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Eventually Clark cracked open one eye, to find Lex pinching his upper lip, convulsed in silent laughter.

“Lex?” he asked, baffled.  He opened the other eye to check that he hadn’t had a sudden malfunction of some new variety of super-vision.

No, Lex seemed much the same when observed with two eyes.  Laughing.  At Clark. 

He _was_ laughing, wasn’t he?  Surely Lex couldn’t be crying.  Not _Lex_.

“Clark,” said Lex, wiping his eyes and forcing his face to settle out of hysterical mirth into tolerant amusement.  “You have no idea, do you?  Thanks to that one headline, I am permanently equated in the press and the minds of the public with the _emblem of the United States_.  You can’t _buy_ a moniker that good.  My public relations manager has offered to have your babies, Clark, and I'm quite concerned he’s serious.  Thanks to that one headline, when it’s time, I’m going to be able to win, no matter what mud the _Star_ tries to fling my way.  Thanks to you, I’m going to be the first openly gay president in US history.”

Clark stared at him blankly, gears starting to turn slowly in his mind.

“Come _here_ , you ridiculous moron!" laughed Lex.  "I’m not angry; I’m _ecstatic_.  This is the best news I’ve had since thinking that obnoxious headline in the _Star_ had put the presidency completely beyond reach.  And I’ve really missed you this week.”

“Geez Louise, Lex!” spluttered Clark, the smile on Lex’s face finally sinking in as he gasped for air in the wake of his near-death experience.  The only possible cure was a near-Lex experience.

Clark closed the distance between them at super-speed, wrapping his arms gratefully around Lex in a tight squeeze only just the right side of an unfortunate super-squashing.

“I thought you were going to kill me!” moaned Clark.  “Or that I’d… I’d _hurt_ you!  I spent all day worrying after I saw you’d spilled coffee on that stupid, lame headline.  And all that at the press conference!  You do these things on purpose, don’t you?”

Lex pulled back to grin at him, tangling his hands in Clark’s hair to prevent him from going too far.

“I only promised to stop the nemesis business,” he said fondly, “not that I’d stop being a manipulative son of a bastard.  I needed you to react like that at the press conference.  Those reporters will make sure no one forgets the name, if they think they’re causing trouble for us.”

“Lex!  You _deliberately_ made me think—”

“Besides, you know it did you good,” Lex waved Clark’s protest away.  “Now I’m out of the villain market, you’ve been bored out of your mind battling rainbow kittens and pork products.  You don’t have to thank me; the memory of the old days was the least I could do.  Happy anniversary, you idiot.”

“Thank goodness you _are_ out of the market,” said Clark, fervently.  “Lex, you didn’t have to put me in fear of your Kryptonite ninjas!  I’ve never forgotten you could take me down if you wanted to.”

“I’ve told you many times, Clark.”  Lex’s smirk was unconvincing, deliberately so, Clark was sure.  “There _are_ no Kryptonite ninjas.”  He leaned close Clark’s ear and breathed, “I don’t _need_ them to own your ass.”

Clark wasn’t quite sure who kissed who at that, but there was silence for a few minutes until they separated again.

“I’ve missed you, too,” Clark confessed.

“You haven’t been home at a decent hour in _days,_ ” accused Lex, and then gave Clark a lascivious look that forced him to fight for his gravitational reference.  “At this point, I don’t even care that you smell like you should be served with roast potatoes and applesauce.  I’m confiscating your suit until Monday; no excuses, I’ve worked out how to fit it with a lead lining.  And I’ve had the lab make up leaded hair-gel and invisible zinc for you, too.  It’s obvious that the radiation affects your brain function if it took you four hours to work out how to disable a mutant whose deepest, Kryptonite-fuelled desire was to be a _sausage_.”

Clark tried to feel annoyed at the criticism, but couldn’t get it past the swelling sensation in his heart at the idea of Lex officiously stepping in to solve his superheroing problems.  It was starting to lift his feet off the ground.  Clark hoisted Lex up with him in an effort to regain control.  At least if the man was going to make him float away, Clark didn’t have to go alone.  

“And you didn’t need to spend so much time worrying about those damned eagles’ nesting grounds,” persisted Lex, unflinching at the loss of gravity, not flailing for balance even momentarily as he wrapped his legs around Clark’s waist.  “ _Or_ about the ninjas hunting you down.  You should already know,” he said, undulating his hips in a way that made them revolve slowly on the spot, “I’m _always_ eager to promote the mating habits of endangered species…”

Which was really more than the last son of Krypton could be expected to handle.  If Clark had perhaps utilized the speed and strength unique to his near-extinct race to skip past some of the preliminary stages of those habits, the ones associated with relocation and the removal of clothing, then perhaps that was only natural.  

And if the message Lois left on Clark’s phone—saying that she was onto something big and when could he drive with her to an abandoned warehouse just out of town—went unanswered until Monday morning, well, it wouldn’t have been the first time.

Or the last.

Because when they were apart, they might have had to be Clark Kent, legendarily unbiased Pulitzer Prize-winning reporter from the _Daily Planet_ ; Lex 'The Bald Eagle' Luthor, CEO of the fastest growing ethical business in the world and future Gay President of the United States; and Superman, the bacon-smelling Man of Steel, bravely saving the world from Kryptonite-induced evil, one mutated sausage man at a time…  And their jobs might not have come with punch cards that clocked them out at five pm, or that guaranteed they wouldn’t be called back in for an emergency...

But when they finally got the chance to be together, they could take off the masks they wore for the world.  And even if no one else would do it for them, they could always make the time to lock _themselves_ away in a room.  With a bed.  Overnight.

Or even for the whole weekend.

**Author's Note:**

> My first attempt at humour, in honour of April Fools Day. I had fun; I hope you did, too! If it gave you a giggle, I'd love it if you could take a minute to let me know. :)


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